


Breathe

by egocentrifuge



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Comforting, Joellis - Freeform, M/M, adam swoops in with comfort this is a Happy Fic, description of panic attack, h/c, or like, the end is happy at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 16:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6914428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egocentrifuge/pseuds/egocentrifuge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something creaks as Joel braces his hands on the desk–the wood, his hands, his jaw, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t, doesn’t much care, either, doesn’t–doesn’t, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, doesn’t know–</p><p>Joel watches his hands turn white without feeling the way his locked elbows are cutting off blood flow. Joel stares at the black of his monitor without noticing the spots dancing in his vision.</p><p>He’s fucked. That’s, that’s just it. He’s fucked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Written to accompany [this](http://deeleteme.tumblr.com/post/137780007646/happy-birthday-egocentrifuge-3) amazing piece of artwork I somehow scored for my birthday. Thank you so much, dee <3

It’s, it’s funny–it’s hilarious, actually, what people think Joel does. Or doesn’t do, actually, because, because people seem to have this idea that Joel does nothing. That Joel wanders around the Rooster Teeth offices like a fat cat, asking for attention constantly then balking at it the moment eyes turn his way.

Which Joel does, does do, but only on days like these, on days that he’s down to the wire on a deadline for Another Fucking Commercial with an uninspired script and too many fucking shots of gameplay of a game two months from beta, a game he’s supposed to make pretty and desirable even with it having more bugs than a stray in Los Angeles.

Joel–machinimates. Joel hides clunky animation cycles behind mobs and glares at the unpredictable spawns and fumes at the lack of a free roaming camera and Joel, Joel forgets to record, sometimes, when he hasn’t slept for two days and can’t remember the taste of anything besides coffee and he, and he’s fucked, he’s so utterly fucked, he–

He’s due for another cup of coffee. For a view of the world where the HUD is permanently off instead of on and perpetually letterboxing his shot to a shitty resolution he shudders to think about on a television worth a damn.

He’s due for a coffee, and a power nap, and, and–and, and a walk, that’s what he needs, a walk. 

Joel stands and his foot hooks in the power cable and his entire rig turns off with a sound that might actually be all the blood in Joel’s body turning to ice.

Something creaks as Joel braces his hands on the desk–the wood, his hands, his jaw, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t, doesn’t much care, either, doesn’t–doesn’t, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, doesn’t know–

Joel watches his hands turn white without feeling the way his locked elbows are cutting off blood flow. Joel stares at the black of his monitor without noticing the spots dancing in his vision.

He’s fucked. That’s, that’s just it. He’s fucked. 

Joints crack as Joel straightens mechanically and backs away from his desk, an audible counterpoint to the way his thoughts are snapping. He’s not going to get paid, he, he’ll have to compensate the company for the missed deadline. They’ll pass the news on to other companies, who won’t hire Joel, who’ll blacklist him and his company, will start telling the corporate world that Rooster Teeth isn’t worth hiring. Matt, crushed–Burnie, pissed–Joel’s fault, it’s Joel’s fault, he’s ruined, ruined it, ruined–

Joel’s caught as he spirals up by an arm around his waist, an arm that pulls him back down to earth, shoves his frantic mind back into a shaking body that he’d, he’d honestly rather not be in. His arms twitch as he tries to maneuver them, tries to shove back, but then a second arm is sliding up and covering his mouth and nose, stopping his too-fast breaths.

It’s two dozen tripping heartbeats until the hand slides down, lets Joel inhale through his nose

In that time, Joel feels the ice begin to thaw.

It’s no longer an insurmountable task to make his body obey his instructions, to move like he wants to, to raise a hand and press the arm across his chest tighter against him. 

“Hey,” he hears through the melting panic. “Hey, I’ve got you. Just breathe, dude.”

Joel breathes. His eyes slide shut. He slumps.

“It’s alright,” Adam says. “You’re alright.”

It’s–it’s difficult to believe him, but when Joel’s knees finally give out Adam barely sways as he readjusts his grip.

“See? I got you. It’s okay.”

Joel, Joel–wants to shake his head, but Adam still has his hand over Joel’s mouth, stoppering his protests before he can give them voice.

“That’s it. That’s it, Joel.”

It’s–okay, it’s kind of, kind of absurd, now, the way Adam eases Joel to the floor, props him up with his back to Adam’s chest and strokes down his side like he’s–like he’s a scared animal. 

“Good boy,” Adam hums. “That’s a good boy.”

Joel doesn’t realize he’s started to laugh until Adam is petting through his hair and not holding his mouth, until his lips register the cold, until he’s free to turn and bury his head in the crook of Adam’s neck heedless of the scratch of his beard.

“I got you, Joel,” Adam repeats. “You’re alright.” 

Joel–Joel still isn’t sure he agrees on that second point, but he’s willing, he’s willing to concede that Adam does in fact have him.

 _I’m fucked,_ Joel wants to say, but he’s still laughing, still smiling into Adam’s skin. It seems, seems like a waste of effort to catch his breath without Adam guiding him, so Joel lets himself laugh, lets, lets himself be held.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at egocentrifuge.tumblr.com


End file.
